The bell above the door chimed, a cheerful, tinkling sound at odds with the solemn hush inside The Daily Knead. Sunlight streamed through the front window, illuminating dust motes dancing over a half-eaten cherry Danish. “Four lumps. Can you believe it? The man treated his tea like syrup.” “He had a sweet tooth. There’s no crime in that.” “Perhaps not. But there’s something unsettling about a man so particular about his sugar intake turning up face-down in his own prize-winning petunias.” “It was his heart, Florence. The doctor said so.” “The doctor also said Mildred Peabody’s prize-winning poodle had a simple cold, and two days later it was gone. I’m just saying, it’s a curious coincidence.” “What is?” “That the day after Arthur Hemlock finalized his will, leaving everything to a cat sanctuary in Dorset, his heart simply… gives out. And right next to the new weed killer he’d just bought, mind you.” “You think someone poisoned him with weed killer?” “I think it’s a terrible waste of a perfectly good scone. Are you going to finish that?”